


Side Effects May Vary

by anexcessoffeels (headbuttingbears)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aphrodisiacs, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Floor Sex, Hate Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1852654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/pseuds/anexcessoffeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was it possible Will could – without diminishing the profound antipathy he felt for Chilton – want to stick his dick in the other man? </p><p>The answer, Will decided one afternoon, was a firm maybe edging into a soft yes. He was institutionalized, he had literally nothing else to do, and he was the kind of bored that always led to bad decisions.</p><p>Bored and, thanks to one script-happy chief administrator, incredibly horny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Side Effects May Vary

**Author's Note:**

> AU as all get-out. Basically toss everything after 2x03, assume Hannibal did the smart thing and stopped murdering everyone in sight, and Will had a second trial that went badly and resulted in him being permanently committed to BSHCI. If you can do all that then come sit by me.
> 
> Any mistakes, especially of the pharmacological kind, are mine.
> 
> As always, for Jenny.

_I fake a coughing fit; ever solicitous, he goes to pour me a glass of water. The rug muffles my footsteps as I sneak up behind him. He thinks I'm sedated, and the last two weeks of private sessions have left him careless. I kick his cane away, knocking him off balance. As he staggers, I channel his momentum into a hard shove toward the desk. I grab his left wrist, jerking it up behind his back, painful and distracting, before I seize a handful of his jacket collar. I slam his head down onto the desktop, just enough to stun-_

"Will? Really, if you want these sessions to continue then you simply _must_ participate."

Will blinked, daydream fading.

 

It had started three days after the verdict, "not guilty by reason of insanity," came back. How Chilton had resisted the urge to fuck with Will's meds for as long as he had was beyond even Will's ability to imagine. With the exception of some stultifying oral tests, he'd largely left Will alone throughout the course of the failed first trial and the successful (by everyone else's reckoning) second go-round. The good doctor had probably swooned in the gallery when the verdict was read; Will had been too busy watching what was left of his life shatter around him to pay attention.

Three days of clean living and letting the verdict sink in. Then came eight months of uppers, downers, inbetweeners. Failed appeals, assets drying up, the Ripper going underground.

"Goodbye, my friend," Hannibal Lecter had said to him, the day before they moved Will from what had turned out to be temporary quarters to something more permanent in the basement. Of course it was in the basement.

He was Chilton's prized guinea pig now. He even had his own plastic-walled box to live in.

"What, no giant wheel?" he'd asked after they'd taken off the restraints and shut the door. "No wood chips?"

Eight months of ink blots, blank-faced orderlies, talk therapy. _So much_ talk therapy. The occasional round of sodium thiopental to liven things up – Chilton's water torture, as Will thought of it now. The twice-daily rattle of pills in paper cups, new color combinations every month but the sound unchanging.

Will wasn't a monster. He knew he wasn't. But after eight months of tasteless food, no direct sunlight, and having Frederick fucking Chilton as his sole conversational partner, he had started to sympathize with Abel Gideon.

He didn't imagine himself in hip waders and a furry hat anymore, fly-fishing to his heart's content in crisp clean Virginian waters. Oh no. Now, all the way down to the deepest part of his subconscious, he saw himself in his hospital-issue overalls, exacting a very physical revenge on his psychiatrist.

Most often he'd pictured himself simply braining Chilton with his ridiculous cane, run-of-the-mill thoughts of bloody revenge, but whatever drug cocktail he was on now was a real panty-dropper. There was an itch under his skin and a heat in his blood that was downright pharmacological, nothing he could blame on loneliness. He'd spent the last week feeling like a teenager again, getting hard at the most inconvenient times and for the worst reasons. It was at once aggravating, humiliating, and perversely novel. His daydreams had certainly taken a turn for the worse.

Sitting in the dunk tank with Chilton lobbing softball questions at him had given Will plenty of time to mull over his own sexuality and engage in some silent soul-searching. He remembered the old-as-dirt Ethics 101 question of whether it was wrong to push the fat man in front of a train to save a hundred bystanders, and privately concluded that his question was both more disturbing _and_ more interesting. Certainly more immediately applicable.

Was it possible he could – without diminishing the profound antipathy he felt for Chilton – want to stick his dick in the other man?

 

The answer, Will had decided one afternoon after he watched Chilton bite the end of his $500 pen before writing down what was doubtlessly the most inane observation in the history of psychiatry, was a firm maybe edging into a soft yes. He was between pro bono lawyers, Alana had stopped visiting him months ago – it seemed she got the kids in the divorce after all – and he was institutionalized. He had literally nothing else to do, and he was the kind of bored that always led to bad decisions.

Bored and, thanks to one script-happy chief administrator, incredibly horny.

As much as he hated the idea, he really needed some alone time with Chilton. Somewhere the orderlies couldn't – or wouldn't – interrupt them.

Getting out of the dunk tank was far easier than it should have been. A smile here, a flutter of eyelashes there, and a gradual uptick in chatter had left Chilton pleased as punch, crowing about how _thrilled_ he was that Will was finally opening up, and how much they could both _learn_ from each other, and wouldn't it be _wonderful_ for them to go on this grand journey of discovery of the mind _together_ and blah blah blah.

"Yes, of course, Frederick," Will had said, interrupting the monologue. "That all sounds great." He paused, then sighed – partly an act, partly because he really, _really_ wanted to touch himself. What he'd do for some baggier pants. What he was _about_ to do for a little privacy. Fuck Big Pharma, seriously. This could _not_ be just a side effect. This had to be deliberate.

"What is it?" Chilton leaned forward in his chair, actually looking concerned. Will's loathing decreased for the millisecond he managed to forget who was to blame for his current predicament, then increased twofold when he considered how easily manipulated Chilton was. Really, it was laughable. _This guy_ was the head of the Hospital for the Criminally Insane? The state of Maryland was in deep shit.

"It's just... These bars." He trailed a finger along the metal latticework along the front of the cage door. "Don't you find them a distraction? To _real_ conversation, I mean."

Chilton shifted back in his seat, crossing his legs. "Will, you know very well that- Well, there are procedures in place for a _reason_ -"

"Oh, I know," Will sighed again, dropping his hand from the door. "I wouldn't want to be alone with me either, given-" He looked up at Chilton, taking in his absorbed expression. "Given the things I've done," he finished, voice low as he dropped his gaze back to the floor. He'd never come as close to admitting anything since the first trial had gone pear-shaped. He rubbed a hand slowly over his thigh, regretted it immediately, and let the bait lie. God, he needed out of this cage.

"Well..."

He looked up.

"I suppose, given your recent progress, a change of venue wouldn't be totally amiss," Chilton said, tapping his pen on his notepad before narrowing his eyes. "As an act of good faith, you understand."

"Of course," Will said, smiling. "Whatever you say, Doctor."

Chilton smirked, tapping his pen again and bobbing his foot slightly. "Yes, well, I _am_ the boss around here," he replied.

 

That had been two weeks ago. Ten sessions of uninspired psychoanalysis, fourteen more days of paper cups: a little white pill, a little pink pill, and the evil little blue pill Will thought was to blame for how the faint cross-breeze caused by the basement ventilation made his dick twitch when the air whispered against his skin. Today he'd only managed to avoid taking the white one: the sedative. After Gideon and Matthew Brown, "constant vigilance" was the orderlies' S.O.P. And, to their credit, hard to get around.

But then, he only needed to avoid taking the white one.

"Will? Really, if you want these sessions to continue then you simply _must_ participate."

Will blinked, rising on an elbow to better look at Chilton. Of course he was lying on the couch, with Chilton in a chair a little behind him; had to get as old school as possible lest Freud start to spin in his grave. "Sorry, I've been a little... Preoccupied lately," he said, fingering the stitching on the leather cushion. At least it was a nice couch. Hell, if Chilton would leave the room long enough Will would probably _fuck_ the couch. His standards had dropped dramatically.

There was something in Chilton's face though, in his narrowed eyes, that struck Will as... _Too_ knowing. Especially for Chilton. Will watched how his fingers traced down the side of his cane, and he knew.

_Thanks to one script-happy chief administrator._

He laid back down on the couch. _I kick his cane away..._

Will started coughing.

 

Chilton was groaning beneath him, shaking his head slowly side to side, dazed. Not making enough noise to attract the orderlies; Will knew exactly how much they were willing to ignore. He'd pitched a fit a week ago to test their limits and found them surprisingly high.

"You _knew_ ," Will hissed, still holding onto his wrist. "And they called _me_ the sick one."

"I- What-"

One hand full of too-expensive plaid jacket, Will leaned forward, pinning Chilton down against the desk. His heart was pounding, only partly due to anger; now that he finally had his hands on someone all those weeks of little blue pills were really making themselves known.

It was awkward, and shouldn't have worked at all, but Will managed to reach around and fumble Chilton's belt buckle open with one hand. A tug here, a jerk there, and what seemed like a yard of black Italian leather slithered free.

For the length of two quick heartbeats, Will thought about strangling Chilton with the belt. He could clearly see himself doing it: looping it over his neck would be so easy, and then all he'd have to do is _pull_ -

Will blinked, and levered himself back up by pushing down hard on Chilton's wrist, planted in the middle of his back. He noted his groan but got no joy from it. He was reaching for the other wrist when he realized belatedly that Chilton wasn't exactly resisting, that those shoulders weren't shaking in fear.

Will almost stepped back, but it would have meant losing the firm press of Chilton's ass against his crotch and damned if he was giving that up now after all he'd been through. "You son of a bitch." When in doubt, disgust. As if he still had the higher ground.

The noise that came out of Chilton could only be categorized as a laugh. High, incredibly nervous-sounding, but definitely a laugh.

"You really did do this on purpose, didn't you," Will said flatly. "Jesus. I thought you were just an asshole, not- You're as bad as-" He didn't finish the thought, instead grabbing again for Chilton's other hand, wrenching his arm around so he could loop the belt around both wrists and draw it tight, the metal tongue of the buckle dragging along the leather.

"There _is_ something to be said for his methods," Chilton said. "Winding you up and watching you go is really- Ah! Quite rewarding."

Will pulled hard on the belt a second time, watching the skin on Chilton's hands go briefly white. "If you seriously think I'm going to discuss Hannibal Lecter with you _right now_ then you're the one who should be in a straight jacket." He paused, leaning forward again to whisper into Chilton's ear. "You can borrow mine. I think it would fit you."

Chilton bit his lip, eyes going wide.

Will did roll his eyes then, shaking his head and fighting to ignore how Chilton rocked back against him as he finished securing the belt. He'd used that same knot tying flies; it was amazing how your hobbies could make themselves useful even in the most perverse of circumstances. It really paid to have interests outside of work.

Will reached around Chilton's body again, unzipping his pants and pushing them down, hands sliding over his soft thighs, simultaneously hating and relishing the feel of another warm body. _Eight months_ , he thought, closing his eyes. Not so much as a handshake for eight months, and now-

"Have you gone into some sort of fugue state? Are you seizing? Get a move on already," Chilton said, shifting his weight in what should absolutely not have been an erotic manner, trying to turn to look at Will.

So much for any illusion that they weren't who they were.

Will stepped back and hauled him up by the wrists. "Do us both a favor," he said, kicking Chilton in the side of the ankle, more dropping than lowering him to the floor between the couch and the desk. "Don't talk."

Chilton, curled before him on the floor, swallowed thickly. "There's lotion in my desk. Top right-hand drawer."

Will grimaced, moving to get it. "Of course there is." He could too easily imagine it: Chilton lying on that magnificent couch, listening to his audio feeds, tumbler of scotch in one hand, cock in the other. _Oh, the cleverness of me..._ If anything should have killed Will's hard-on it was that, but no such luck.

The bottle was next to an oversized magnifying glass. _You roll your eyes any more and they're gonna roll right out of your damn head_ , he could hear his father saying. He shuddered. Now was not the time to be thinking about his father.

The metal snaps were firecracker-loud when Will wrenched his overalls open, the _pop pop pop_ visibly startling Chilton. As Will shrugged out of the sleeves, pushing his overalls down, he spared a moment's thought for how vulnerable Chilton appeared.

 _How kickable_ , another angrier part of him suggested.

Then Chilton squirmed, drawing his legs up, shoving his face into the rug – some complicated play for leverage, trying to get up at least to his knees. But the tensing curve of his underwear-clad ass caught Will's eye, and before Will knew it he had his dick out through the slit of his boxers, in hand and slicked up before he could say "sexual misconduct."

 _To hell with it_ , Will thought, dropping to his knees. For ten minutes – probably less, if he was being honest – he could pretend to be someone who would ordinarily enjoy fucking Frederick Chilton. God knew he'd pretended to be far worse people before.

A knee planted on either side of Chilton's pants-constrained legs, Will hooked a thumb in the waistband of Chilton's briefs, drawing them down far enough to give himself access before pulling him roughly up by the hips. Face down, ass up; it was an unnatural position for anyone not a twenty-year-old yoga instructor. Will ignored the muffled noises of complaint, and all the warning Chilton got before Will shoved his cock in his ass was the jerk at his wrists when Will grabbed a handful of belt to steady himself, wrenching his shoulders.

"Fuck," Will hissed, hips jerking forward, trying to burrow as deep as he could into that heat. Chilton was tight, probably _too_ tight; Will did his best to ignore the high-pitched, unhealthy noises that sounded like they were being scraped out of the man with a metal file every time Will moved inside him.

But his ass made for a nice meaty handful, and Will was right: it wasn't going to take ten minutes. Far less, and for far less he _could_ pretend to be someone who enjoyed this. All those little blue pills made it so, as well as how Frederick's face looked at this angle: his eyes squeezed shut, mouth open as he moaned weakly into the scratchy area rug – infinitely more tolerable this way. He was as flushed as Will felt, as hot and red and alive, and Will questioned every choice he'd ever made that resulted in his coming, silent and shuddering, at the sight of Frederick Chilton biting his lip.

Will wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, swaying back when Chilton pushed insistently against him, and goddamnit, he was still hard. Seriously, _fuck Big Pharma_ -

"Please," Chilton gasped, wriggling deliciously. "Ah! Please, _please_ , Will, _please_ -"

Will's frown lasted until Chilton clenched around him. "Don't be lazy now, Frederick," he gritted out, eyelids fluttering shut at the clutch of his body, blind to all his imploring looks.

But one didn't become head of the loonies without putting in some hard work, Will grudgingly admitted as Chilton moved against him, fucking himself on Will's cock to the best of his ability.

 _Which is what he wanted all along_ , Will thought ruefully, watching him twist and moan beneath him. Why couldn't any of his shrinks just be _normal_? Chilton's hands flexed hypnotically, capturing Will's attention, until the world was just those fingers grabbing at nothing, and the feel of warm flesh slapping against flesh, and the sound of their heavy breathing.

When Will came again it was a shock, a sudden urge to thrust – hard – _now_ , and he did, at the same time sliding a hand under Chilton's shirt to rub along sweaty skin, down his side, feeling him tense and tremble. Will felt himself softening - finally - at the same moment he saw Chilton's face go slack, mouth relaxed and blissfully silent for once as he lay still, eyes soft and unfocused. Until the rivulet of sweat at his temple rolled into his eye and he winced, blinked hard, and was forcefully reminded he couldn't wipe his face.

Will pushed himself gingerly to his feet, legs tingling. _Could be worse_ , he thought, bending down to snatch up Chilton's pocket square. If the man was too distracted to notice that Will used it to wipe off his dick before putting everything back where it belonged then that was for the best.

He checked the clock on the desk: they still had an hour. Now that his little problem was sorted out he knew just how he wanted to spend it, and it didn't involve talk therapy.

 

"Did you pick the most uncomfortable position in the world on purpose or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing?" Chilton asked.

Will tilted his head. "I plead the fifth. I used to do that a lot, you know. I got very good at it."

Chilton huffed, unsuccessfully trying to shift himself. Will watched him because technically their session wasn't up yet, and because there was nothing better to do, and because – deep down – he liked seeing Frederick like this. On the floor like a worm. It seemed natural for him.

Less so the finger-shaped red marks on his bare ass and the faint glistening on more intimate bits of skin, but those were explainable. Even the wild hair and crumpled suit were appealing, in a strange way. Oh, to see the drycleaner's face when they saw those pants.

Will took a drag on one of Chilton's cigarettes and settled more comfortably in the chair. Not as comfortable as the one behind the desk but it had the better view. He felt a little like a Red Army general surveying the scorched earth he'd left behind. Satisfied.

"At least use the ashtray," Chilton grumbled.

"If I put it out on you, who would be more deviant: me for doing it or you for enjoying it?"

"You wouldn't dare."

Will did not miss the slight quaver in the man's voice; he smiled down at him. "No, I wouldn't," he admitted. "I'm far too vanilla. Light bondage and rug burn seem to be as far as I go."

Chilton was apparently not too worn out to glare at him. His face _was_ still very red, and it wasn't just from blushing.

"Looks like it stings," Will said, before he tried to blow a smoke ring. He used to be able to do it back in college.

"You like seeing me like this, don't you?"

That one was sort of ring-shaped. It had _a_ shape anyway. "Post-coital psychoanalysis? Frederick, I didn't think you were so tacky."

"Do you want me to beg?" There was definitely a peevish quality to his voice now.

Will sighed, leaning forward to flick the cigarette ash into the half-full glass of scotch he'd been enjoying. "There's been enough of that already."

"I can't feel my hands," Chilton whined.

"Remember that feeling next time you think about slipping me Spanish Fly," Will said, getting up to help him. He might still dislike the man but he wasn't a monster, after all.


End file.
